Atlas Moons, the city of New Gettysburg. Anton Suslikov, 17 years old.
The Atlas Moons are a very interesting systemic formation. The planet, rich in minerals and home to five million people, has five moons, three of which also have their own colonies with a population of ten million, where the residents mostly live, as the planet's gravity is a bit too high and the conditions in general aren't the best. Shifts are tolerable, but permanently... No, thanks.
Such a life on a satellite has its downsides, of course. Usually, a day is thirty hours long, with about ten hours of night. But once every couple of months, we find ourselves hidden behind the planet, getting another month or a month and a half of continuous night. If it weren't for the moon Gaia, which hangs almost geostationarily, there would be huge problems with food. As it is, we grow some things, and our neighbors bring in others. And warm clothes are needed quite often. But we're used to it. All the moons are rich in rare earth metals—they practically consist of them.
As a result, a unique cluster formed. The moon Gaia provides everything with agriculture. The moons Theia and Tethys, where mineral extraction is concentrated, and the shipyards that produce transport ships and fighter aircraft. Plus the planet Atlas itself, with its fuel production. Recently, the shipyard underwent modernization to install faster and more powerful Shaw-Fujikawa drives on the transports, with a speed of ten light-years per day. This made local ships even more necessary, and the graduates capable of piloting them more in demand.
Is it any surprise where exactly I'm studying? At the local academy to be a pilot. Not just for that reason, of course. There's a second reason. Actually, the second of the local landmarks after the shipyard is the massive academy where military and civilian pilots are trained, which is simply called the Atlas Academy. Located on the moon Tethys, thanks to its status as an educational institution attached to the shipyard, it has access to fairly modern equipment. The training is top-tier; everyone knows that.
If you're good enough, starting right from school. If not, you take your exams and head forward toward knowledge and a very necessary profession. Even regional flights between the moons pay quite well. And if you can qualify for an interstellar ship... you'll be lucky. It's a very prestigious place where I study. A huge city-within-a-city on the outskirts. Many quarters, its own airbase with hangars and equipment. A fifteen-minute walk to the space elevator. Another indicator of the institution's status, I think. Or history—originally, the academy was the administrative center of the new colony. That's where the elevator came from.
The colony grew, the fortified complex went to the academy, and the government moved to a more dignified palace. Order is maintained on the academy grounds; community service punishments are common for anyone who doesn't get it the first time. The proctors are quite strict, but he who wants to find a way, will, right?
And when you have a girlfriend, you definitely want to and can. Ultimately, you have to look for a way, not an excuse. It's better to ask for forgiveness than permission. I smiled, looking through the train window at the approaching perimeter of the academy. For those who managed to pass the exams, a new life begins there. Teachers give more and more information, opening new paths. The primary languages of humanity, practical and theoretical skills. Your head throbs from the lack of habit, but you keep studying. Because it's actually useful. Colonies are often inhabited by a single ethnic group and might speak their own language, knowing the common tongue only limitedly.
And a pilot must be able to talk to flight control. And not just that, of course. The instructors are firmly convinced that if you can walk normally in the evening, you aren't tired. Especially if they catch you with something forbidden. And even if they don't, that's absolutely no reason for them to stop.
"Training is the ability to endure pain, girls," as Sergeant Adams told us, "if you're standing, you can continue. No exceptions."
And then that sadist set us a marathon around the academy—see who could run the most. As it turned out, it was a test of resolve, so that the weak-willed would give up and move to the civilian course. No one left. Because we're guys; while the girls are comparing clothes, we're opening beers with our pectoral muscles. If we manage to smuggle it in, of course. Officers and proctors keep an eye on order and the absence of forbidden items; AIs watch through the cameras.
Who does that stop? No one. A real cadet must be good at everything, including smuggling contraband into the barracks. Especially when someone is waiting for it—someone who will definitely reward you for your feat. With a smile, a kiss, and if you're good enough, something even more interesting. Or just a drink with the boys, as an option. They definitely won't mind. The main thing is not to get caught. It's not easy; the barracks are monitored. Every step is a separate quest.
Nothing will stop me! Not even a call from my parents. Yep, that's Mom.
"Hi, Mom. I'm almost there; I'll be on time. Okay. Listen, I'm on the train, later, okay? I'll call you back. I love you too, Mom. Everything's great, we're pulling in."
Especially a call from my parents. I'll do it. The train passed over the perimeter fence and began to slow down as it approached the station. A mechanical voice politely announced:
"Station Atlas Academy. Please prepare your documents for inspection."
Well, not documents, but an ID card. They won't let you out without it. Ninety percent of the train are students and staff; if they shook everyone down, we'd be sitting here until evening. Which means you have to stick to simple rules. Don't be the first to push, don't sweat it, and don't be nervous. And have a good social ID. After that, the skill of keeping a straight face takes over. Step out, show the ID, and move on.
Some weren't so lucky; some are too nervous or smell of booze. They'll be taken to the building near the station, and if it's not rebel scum, you can find the offenders on the parade ground. And even feel sorry for the guys. They'll be turned into a visual aid for a healthy lifestyle, yeah. I got lucky. Handing my pass to the inspector, I headed further toward the cadet dormitories. There's a school here too, for those ready to march in formation thanks to their military parents. Not my case, but the case of my girlfriend, Inga.
Military for six generations, they went through all the colonization, the rebels, the wild worlds. Her ancestors settled these moons and suppressed unrest. They were on the front lines of intelligence and colonization. And now they're somewhere in space; she sees them once every few months. And has a free apartment the rest of the time. Is there any doubt that such parents would be dead set against a "desk-jockey weakling instead of a man"? You have to measure up, yeah.
But I'm not complaining. My family has something to show, too. My older brother is in the army—not in the local garrison, but in the special forces; he's also out there somewhere in space. I wonder what he's up to? The dormitories are filling up with peers, two each: male and female, ten stories high. Long parallel buildings. A city within a city, as I said. And further on are the academic buildings. Underground are tunnels, which used to be mines. And before terraforming, it was easier to move between buildings that way. Now you can breathe normally on the surface, but the tradition of shoving tunnels everywhere stayed. Oh, and there are the boys.
"Yo, Tokha. Where are you headed?"
That's my friend, Stas. Also studying to be a pilot, but a civilian one. Wants to see the galaxy and sleep with a girl on every planet. On a bet. Buff, but not a looker, though in our time biosculpting isn't a problem; he'll fix his face if he wants to. Otherwise, his musculature is so good you could die of envy. I think he could race the instructors on a bet.
How does he manage to pull off the studies with a setup like that? He just does; he's a meathead, not an idiot.
"What do you think, Red? To Inga's, of course. You'll never win that bet with that approach, man. You have to start small, like with other students on the course."
He laughed.
"Man, the bet was about sleeping together, not relationships. Don't get it twisted, okay? You've got everything serious, but I've got no reason to rush. Especially since the girls throw themselves at me; I'm doing just fine."
I smirked.
"We'll see, buddy. It always happens like that—nothing serious, and then suddenly you've got a ring on your finger and her dad's standing there with an army Magnum. Be afraaaaaid!"
He burst out laughing and gave me a high five. We walked on, each our own way. Life is a blast. The city around is great too—white skyscraper blocks, a blue-orange sky, an absolutely gorgeous girl waiting for me, and a whole weekend ahead before classes so there's no need to rush anywhere. Assignments were done long ago, so that's not a problem either, and I don't have to worry. Just have to not get caught; otherwise, it's pure paradise.
And I have a gift with me, liqueur. I think she'll appreciate it; I didn't haul it through security for nothing. Oh, more losers marching, heh-heh. I wonder how the standards on Earth differ? The gravity there is about thirty percent higher. At the entrance to the girls' dorm, the watchman stopped me:
"Where are you headed so cheerfully? Oh, Anton," the man smirked; he understands everything, "she's in. You know the procedure; I'll call her now."
"Thanks, Pavel Andreevich."
Yeah, the rules are strict. No one needs pregnancies; that's a headache for everyone. So the supervision and punishment rules are extremely harsh. If they catch you, of course. Better if they don't; they can punish the whole floor, and then the whole floor will make you remember it. Collective responsibility, damn it.
"Alright, she answered. You know the rules—be back here by lights out. I'm putting you on the visitor list..."
A siren wailed. The world stopped for a second. Nothing like this was planned for today.
"What the?"
This isn't normal. Not just me—everyone started looking around, searching for the cause of the alarm. Okay, the siren amplitude is six seconds. I swallowed. Different signals mean different things. This is...
"An attack? Here? Now?"
It's just a drill, right? They hold drills, of course. Just another unannounced training alarm. The man calmly pointed toward the men's barracks.
"Get to your barracks, kid. They'll tell you everything there. She'll understand."
I nodded and ran toward the building. The war makes it hard to treat such things too lightly. And the fact that a separate building, dedicated as a memorial to the fallen, is updated with new names every year. And I was even acquainted with some of them. Well, not always directly—friends of friends, but still. Some shit is happening out there, and we're part of it. People around are also running to their barracks.
Without unnecessary panic or shouting—in recent years, drills have been held even for civilians. Inga will have to wait a bit, but she hears it herself and is probably heading to the reinforced basement. So it's not a problem. It's a bit strange that the siren doesn't stop and there's no announcement about a drill, as usual. But our command are veterans; they're fans of "creative" training. Setting up an evacuation through the tunnels where those who didn't manage to pack or run in time are considered "wounded" and have to be carried—that's the mildest version. And besides the wounded, there's cargo, and the tunnel itself is turned into an obstacle course. As the sergeant said:
"In reality, you won't get a second chance. Here, you're either fast enough and alive, or dead. It won't get easier; it will be sudden. Get used to it; this is the life that awaits you."
Well, Vitalik, another classmate, asked:
"Sir, we're pilots? Why do we need this?"
To which the sergeant threw a paint grenade into the formation, and we had new "wounded." What happened to Vitalik? Well, it was unpleasant for him when it was all over. He didn't ask any more stupid questions. So the running and evacuation drills are something we know. Running is calming; the rules are calming. We are trained and ready. Until the sergeants pull something else during another training session. And there's the block building. Another watchman is standing at the doors; the actual assembly is inside. The building is sturdy; it's safer there.
"Come on, get in. Faster!"
Yeah, yeah, yeah, not the first time. I'm going. A roar sounded from behind, and then something bright flashed. Everything shuddered. Turning around, it became clear that one of the academic buildings had erupted in blue flame, flowing out of the windows and collapsing in on itself. Quite far away, but bright and very noticeable. Black dots appeared in the sky. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic crash of the collapsing building. I swallowed, realizing this was absolutely not a drill. Now it's definitely not a drill. Mmmm-mother.
"Is that... plasma?"
The crowd thawed, and the street filled with noise and shouting.
"We're under attack! Everyone to the shelters! We're under attack."
Holy shit. This alarm isn't a drill. Holy shit. Ouch! I turned to the watchman.
"Inside, you idiot! It's about to start! Move!"
Nodding, I ran into the building. We're under attack. The Atlas Moons are under attack. They're going to be burned. And I have my parents here. And Inga. And I don't want to die; I want the enemies to die instead of me! Damn, what am I saying?
The howling presses on the brain, but the further into the corridor you go, the quieter it gets. Under the barracks, there's always an underground, bunker section. Weapons and all sorts of useful gear are stored there. And there's an evacuation tunnel, so we always gather there. Running cleared my head a bit, as always. I was thinking—why did I decide it was the Covenant at all? We've been told and shown what the "freedom fighters of the Outer Colonies" do. And detonating a nuclear warhead among academic buildings is like blowing their nose to them, as long as they can find a warhead. Not to mention a smaller explosion. Those guys hate the Inner Colonies and those who defend them in the UNSC.
Inga's parents killed quite a few of those guys and their predecessors. Actually, the large military academies are a legacy of those times, among other things. As are the bunkers beneath them. The walls vibrated slightly. Okay, this doesn't look like a terrorist attack, unless they planted a lot of bombs exploding in sequence. But the bunkers will hold, and the people are trained on what to do.
Inside, a couple of hundred people have already gathered, and more are arriving constantly. A massive hall with numerous columns, divided into sections. Each section is filled with various containers that can be used for sitting and sleeping. There's an armory, restrooms, a water supply. Armor for the cadets, too. And this many people and all this creates a rather loud atmosphere.
It's impossible to hear anyone unless they're standing right next to you. Plus, a bunch of people are walking back and forth, looking for their own. Which is what I did. There are many separate sections and a ton of people; the process will take some time. Trying to shout over the crowd is pointless; besides, the proctors will be against it. They're here too. The ceiling shuddered again; looks like a full-scale attack. I hope Inga and my parents managed to get underground. It'll be very bad if they're hurt. Unfortunately, there's no signal. Shielding.
"Everyone calm down!" ordered a voice from the ceiling; the speakers kicked in. "Everyone maintain composure and listen! SILENCE! Excellent. As you've already realized, we are under attack by Covenant forces. Vice Admiral Danford Whitcomb has declared an evacuation of the city. Orders have been given to deploy cadets to assist emergency services. No, you won't be sent to the front lines, but I can guarantee: there'll be enough adrenaline for everyone. Right now, Covenant hunting parties are in the city, and people under fire are trying to reach evacuation points. And if anyone says that helping these people is less important than shooting at Covenant bastards, I'll spit in his face. You all took an oath to the UNSC; today is the day we all fulfill it. We will protect humanity! We will take the fight to the bastards and win. Do you understand me???"
Yes, damn it. We'll do it! We'll protect the people and win!
"Sir! Yes, Sir!"
From the roar in the enclosed space, everyone went slightly deaf, but I feel this impulse, this fire, this thirst for action. And it doesn't matter if it's the Covenant or not—we'll do it! They say Vice Admiral Whitcomb comes from Cossack stock and already distinguished himself at New Constantinople. He leaves no one behind; he fights to the end. Stern, but tough. A real man and a great commander. If anyone can win, it's him.
He's a colorful guy, by the way. A huge Black man with long mustaches hanging from both sides of his mouth and a bald head. Looks more like a grunt than a Vice Admiral. But no one's idiot enough to joke about the commander. They say he never abandons his own; the soldiers simply adore him. He's really tough. The rumble resumed, and it took another roar from the ceiling to shut everyone up.
"Cadets! Draw your gear, prepare to move out. Report to your group proctors. This is not a drill, so act precisely and confidently. Civilians are much calmer when they see neat people in uniform, even you milksops. Move out!"
With renewed energy, I rushed to find our group, ready to charge into battle. You could scoop the inspiration with a spoon; the first groups have already started toward the exit, further increasing the chaos and making the search difficult. What if our group leaves too? They shouldn't; it takes some time to get dressed—the main thing is not to be slow. They hadn't left; I found them around the next turn. Fifteen cadets and the proctor, Lieutenant Kovalenko. The guys, seeing me, immediately started greeting me and shaking hands; the man nodded.
"Another one. Good. We wait three minutes and head out; the crowd will thin out a bit by then. Get dressed in the meantime."
Excellent. Opening a crate, I started equipping myself with protection. Helmets, pads, light vests to stop shrapnel. There's plenty of that here. Only instead of the UNSC emblem, it's the academy insignia and the letter "C." Cadet, yeah. The others are also gearing up quickly. Now I'm almost a real soldier, heh-heh. Inga and her ancestors would be proud.
"And what is our objective?"
The man smirked. The ceiling shuddered once more, signaling a hit.
"You heard everything. Up there, all hell is breaking loose. We'll be assigned a sector; find people and help them get out. Think of everything as a practical exercise. Only instead of examiners, it's the Covenant, and they don't forgive mistakes. I can only advise one thing: use your heads, remember what we covered in class, and don't play hero. The Covenant doesn't care who they kill. And you won't get a second chance," he sighed. "Alright, time's up. Head to the 'gut,' stay in formation."
The "gut" is that same evacuation corridor under the surface. The ceiling shuddered again; dust fell. If they're bombing heavily up there, it's better this way. Being a target sucks. We moved through the corridor at a run with other groups, fairly quickly—it's about two or three kilometers. The vibration is intensifying; a screech and a crash sounded behind us, and we fell to the ground. A clang rang out; someone shouted in my ear:
"The third block was blown!"
I live in the fifth; Inga's in the sixth. The jolt was so strong that everyone was knocked down, and many are getting up with groans. The lights are flickering but working. Some people are bleeding. I started coughing. I think I hit something. My knees hurt, damn it. Good thing I have pads on my legs; it would have been much worse. My ears are ringing; other cadets are gradually getting up—almost all of them. Ow, that hurts. The corridor is intact, though it's filled with white dust from one of the passages.
"We need to move, this dust..." I croaked; I don't even know if I said it out loud.
My ears are ringing. But we have to move. I wonder how Inga is. The guys are okay; it was just unexpected. I coughed, inhaling the white dust. Don't think about how many people were buried in the third. And that instead of the third, it could have been the fifth... What blew up like that? The bunker is supposed to hold...
"Snapped out of it? Good, move, don't waste time!" the Lieutenant roared so loudly that even I heard him.
Or maybe it let up a bit, I don't know. Now our cross-country run became somewhat uneven, limping. But no one's complaining. No one wants to linger anymore; some are still coughing from the dust. Other groups also moved toward the exit; fortunately, no more collapses like that happened. Lights flickered, walls trembled. But by the time we reached the end, everyone had more or less come to their senses. The inspiration of the first minutes had vanished, replaced by fear. Going out into the streets isn't so appealing anymore, even though we have to. The thought of what an explosion like that could do to you outside of cover doesn't add to the desire to rush forward.
But the desire to get the hell out of here, very much so. But the exit is getting closer—well, one of them. Other groups also slowed down, heading for their respective exits. Ours leads to an underground highway. Four lanes of high-speed traffic in each direction, plus a technical walkway along the wall. Right now, it's all locked in traffic jams and people running toward the space elevators and the spaceport. Frightened, panicking, and there are a lot of them here. One of the main routes, and underground too. Which means it's safe from the air.
Given the roar and the vibrating tremors, it must be quite hot up there. At the door we entered through, four soldiers are setting up a machine gun. The technical tunnels are located higher than the main roadbed, so there will be a good field of fire. And the people scurrying between the cars won't get in the way.
"Hey, cadets! Fall in!" we quickly and slightly limping lined up against the wall so as not to interfere with the soldiers. "Here's your task: look around and help. So these people down there don't crush each other. Hear the gunfire? This is one of the main routes, so people are pushing underground by any means possible."
I looked at the people below again. Ordinary residents, almost without belongings. They grabbed what they could and are running, running. They stumble, fall, get up, and run further. They're hindering themselves and each other. The cars should be moved, but the jam is dead. And there are trucks blocking the view. And people aren't in a hurry to help their neighbor. They push, knock each other down. But not when they notice us and the machine gun crew. That's our job in this tunnel—crowd control. There's shooting outside; people are fighting for us, but this work is important too.
Looking at us in armor, the civilians act somewhat calmer, more rational. You just go, help a person up, and the others behave more carefully. If anything, there are many of us here; we'll manage. The main thing is that they don't crush each other. Our squad spread out along the corridor and climbed onto the cars, marking our presence. In any other situation, the car owners would be howling, but now they've long since bailed, and our presence and commands calm the crowd a bit as they twitch from the vibration and the roar above. Yes, we're doing important work.
Suddenly, the roar of the machine gun deafened us. I pressed against the nearest car, into cover, as we were taught. The bullets passed overhead as bright tracers; it looks like they're firing across the tunnel, not along it. The noise turned into screaming; people scattered. Holy shit!
"Where are you going! Idiots! Down the tunnel!" someone yelled.
I jumped up and rushed toward those running toward the entrance instead of the exit. Along the way, I saw a ventilation duct riddled with bullets, with a huge green fly with long arms hanging out of it? I think that's someone from the Covenant. If they were hanging out here and firing at the crowd... Speaking of the crowd.
"Stop! Stop! The other way! The exit isn't that way!" I fell when an elderly woman knocked me off my feet and landed on top of me.
A shot rang out. The woman shrieked and jumped up, hitting another car. It's quite cramped here. It was our Lieutenant Kovalenko with a pistol in his hands. An assault rifle is hanging from his belt.
"Everyone calm down! Move according to the signs calmly, for fuck's sake! Or I'll shoot you idiots myself! Listen to the soldiers and do as you're told, idiots!"
I struggled to get up and adjusted my helmet. Yeah, the work might be important, but it's not at all rewarding. The lady crawled away on all fours. More and more firing can be heard; looks like the Covenant is pushing toward one of the exits. A minute later, one of the side passages closed as the flow of people through it began to dry up. A group of soldiers passed last, heading for one of the technical tunnels. Now people are running in only one direction; the turn is blocked. The cars were simply crushed by the heavy doors, like a giant press. One caught fire, and even though it was quickly extinguished, the tunnel filled with the smell of burnt plastic.
Movement resumed somewhat. Not for very long; soon the shooting could be heard in the other tunnel as well. After a while, the flow of people began to thin out, and then several blue flashes flew into the corridor, leaving marks on the walls. I ducked belatedly.
"Faster! Faster! The Covenant is almost here!"
As if proving the fact, more flashes flew into the corridor—red ones. A pop sounded, then another, and something exploded near a car; people fell to the ground with screams, rolling around and leaving crimson trails. Red flashes streaked overhead, cutting down one of the cadets remaining on a car roof. Igor fell like he'd been poleaxed.
"Into cover, you sons of bitches!"
The machine gun and assault rifles are roaring, deafening and sending rounds down the tunnel. Another explosion sounded—damn echo. I looked out from behind the car, and a red flash burned through both of the car's windows and scorched my cheek. Mmmm-mother, that's plasma! My heart is pounding wildly, and I ducked and ran quickly deep into the tunnel. And not just me. The machine gun started up overhead again. Shit-shit-shit! There's more shooting, and then the corridor was filled, echoing, with someone's deafening roar. And an explosion.
Turning around against my will, I realized two things. First, the machine gun is no longer firing. The explosion was clearly a grenade. And one look was enough to make me feel sick. They were all simply torn apart, including the Lieutenant. Second, Brutes are damn huge and terrifying bastards. Five of them—huge, hairy freaks towering over the cars with massive weapons, firing in all directions. Fuck! Those freaks started firing at us! I think someone fell! Whatever, later!
Maneuvering between the cars, zig-zagging like a hare, I bolted down the tunnel to the roar and chuckles of those freaks. I don't know exactly how they laugh, but I'm absolutely sure they're doing exactly that! A couple of times a burst passed over my head, but missed. I think I was saved by the fact that there are quite a few people in the tunnel. Damn, the people! We have to help! But how? Those freaks are nearly three meters tall, weigh as much as a car, and I don't even have a pistol!
Whatever, let's bolt! There should be a technical tunnel around here. To the academy or wherever, I don't care! A burst passed overhead, and glowing metal spikes got stuck in the car to the left. With a hellish stench and hissing, the plastic of the body began to melt until the spikes fell out. Cursing to myself, I lunged to the side, hoping I wasn't visible. I can't hear our people's shooting anymore, only rare screams and hissing. Occasionally the roar of that spike-firing thing. Fantastic, fuck!
"Fuck!" I jumped back as a red flash flew right in front of me. "Shit!"
A flash, and the world spun, then it hurt. I shook my head violently. My ears are ringing. What the hell? What's that nearby—a helmet? I'm seeing double. Fumbling for the helmet, I pulled my hand back with a hiss. Hot! I think I was hit in the helmet. Okay, I need to get out! The Covenant is in the tunnel; if I don't make it...
Struggling to my hands and knees, I crawled toward the edge of the tunnel, listening to the pops through the ringing in my ears. Turning around, looking for the enemy, I saw a huge shadow split another shadow, a smaller one, into two parts. A guttural scream rang out, then more shots. I managed not to scream, but I jerked and moved my legs faster. The technical corridor—there should be an exit there. It seems I wasn't seen, or maybe they think I'm dead. Faster, man, faster.
Whatever, I just need to get out! I vaulted onto the parapet of the technical tunnel in one jump. From here, you can see the corridor and the dark shadows wandering among the cars. They aren't shooting anymore, and no people are visible. I swallowed. Our group was here, and those who didn't make it... They're there. All of them are there.
. If only they made it out. If only Inga made it out. It's time for me to go, too, before they see me.
On all fours, I bolted toward the door of the maintenance corridor. Just don't look here. Don't look! Yes, I'm terrified, but I'm alone in a hallway with a group of armed three-meter-tall gorillas carrying cannons, and I have no weapon. And no helmet. They just killed God knows how many of my classmates and civilians. Just don't creak, good little door, quiet little door!
The fact that the technical doors were well-lubricated and I could quietly slip out of the tunnel was an unreal relief. I'm going to live! One last dash, and then carefully, silently closing the door behind me, leaving the quiet tunnel behind. After taking a few more steps, I leaned against the wall and only then exhaled.
My heart is pounding wildly, my head is throbbing, and I feel nauseous, but motherfucker, I'm alive. I'm alive. From the other side, shots are heard occasionally, but that's it. None of us had weapons, and neither did the civilians—easy targets for those things. Bitch, this is so terrifying. I never would have thought.
"Phew. Okay. Catch my breath for a bit and then move," I whispered to myself.
I need to find our people. Soldiers, cadets, Inga, anyone. I'm a bit nauseous, but otherwise fine. The pain is bearable; I'm a man, right? Aside from the lost helmet, there are no visible injuries. My fingers are slightly burned, but that's such a minor thing. I felt like bursting into laughter, but I managed to suppress it. I can't; they might hear. And if they hear, they'll come. I need to move. The maintenance corridor lives up to its name. Empty and long, with pipes on the walls and yellow lighting.
Something is dripping up ahead. It's a bit scary, but the exit is that way. No sound of footsteps, which is good. Getting up, I trudged in that direction, hoping our people would be ahead and things would get easier. I wish I had a weapon, any weapon. Although, if I'd had a pistol, maybe those Brutes would have shot more accurately, and I wouldn't be walking through this tunnel now, limping slightly. How is everyone? No matter how hard I try, I can't figure out who survived and who didn't.
I was far too busy for that. I hope Inga and my parents are okay. Please let them be okay, alright? I sighed and slowly trudged toward the sound of gunfire. If there's shooting, it means our survivors are there. For me, it's a chance. To be on a battlefield, but still. It was just a moment of weakness; anyone would have been scared in that situation. I think the soldiers are scared too. But they keep fighting.
I'm a soldier too, even if I'm just a cadet. Fear is normal; fear is the work of the self-preservation instinct. I need to be like the Vice Admiral.
"I just need to get to my own people."
That should be doable. The gunfire is getting closer.
***
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